


Cinnamon Sugar

by ruffruffren



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-02-25 12:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2621321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffruffren/pseuds/ruffruffren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aoba is a rebellious boy in his late teens with a penchant for sex. He doesn’t care who it is - so long as it satisfies him. However no one has yet been able to fulfill his insatiable appetite. </p><p>When news spreads of a new members only bar in town, it’s only natural that Aoba check it out in search of new conquests. However the owner proves a hard catch and Aoba becomes frustrated with his inability to claim him.</p><p>Will the tables be turned on Aoba? Will he in fact find himself the prey?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by a piece of artwork to write this AU.

The affair was over now, as disappointing as he feared it might be, and all that remained was the sour after taste. It lingered in the back of his throat as he bent down, wincing as the evidence oozed out from inside him and inched sickeningly down his thigh, his belt buckle jingling lewdly as he pulled his jeans back up to his waist.   
  
'I told you not to come inside,' Aoba spat over his shoulder, fixing his shirt over his bruised nipples.  _Damn, did he have to be that rough with them? ‘_ Now I have to go home and shit it out.’  
  
'Haah? Don't give me that, you were begging for it earlier you little instigator.’ The man’s voice was disinterested, but not half as much as Aoba’s was. That performance was abysmal.   
  
'You're gross. You know how old I am, right?' Aoba retorted, fixing his hair and turning around. What had ever interested him in this guy anyway? His face was long and his cheeks were sullen, the scent of alcohol pungent on his putrid breath. The man shrugged in response and his thin lips curved up to reveal his crooked teeth – Aoba noted the amount of wrinkles around his thin lips, undoubtedly from shouting at his subordinates time and again. His lifeless brown hair flopped over his face as he busied himself with his own pants, and Aoba tried his best not to notice the old spilt coffee and doughnut stains. It was going to take a deep, hot bath to get this one out of his flesh.  
  
Aoba kicked a rain sodden cardboard box out of his way, scuffing his shoes along the hard ground as he left the seclusion of the alleyway, glancing up to the moon as if with meaning. He imagined her milky radiance pouring scorn over him, her innocent eyes turned away behind a midnight blue curtain, unseeing the events that took place beneath her dark veil.   
  
Or some shit like it.  
  
The walk home wasn’t far, but every step let the viscous fluid inside him seep out, tainting every step he took with the burden of his treacherous loins. He hated this part the most – the after sex – for it was like rotten fruit, the purity of it passed when left too long. It was always the same, and he knew tomorrow the cycle would begin anew. The seed would plant itself deep in him, and rapidly grow until his desires came to fruition, to then be plucked out and the beauty of it wilted. It was the inevitable pattern of his life, ever since the priest at the orphanage where he grew up began lifting his robe.  
  
Before rounding the corner onto his street, Aoba dialled up on his coil the only number he had on speed dial. The voice on the other end was quick to answer, already knowing every word Aoba had to say.  
  
'So? How was he?'  
  
'His cock was a decent size, if only he knew how to use it.' Aoba sighed into the receiver, but he enjoyed the feeling of familiarity that came over him when he heard Mizuki's soothing voice.   
  
'Ahh. Another failure, then? That's too bad.'  
  
'Mizuki…'  
  
'No.'  
  
'Not even once? I'll make it worth your while.'  
  
'No.' Aoba imagined his smirk spreading into a knowing smile. The prick.  
'You know I won’t stop asking.'  
  
'And I won’t stop saying no. I know where you've been, unlike all those other unsuspecting victims of yours.'  
  
'Ahh… Guess I'll have to find someone else.'  
  
'I'm sure it won’t take you long.'  
  
'Your words wound me, Mizuki.'  
  
'I know, Aoba. I'll see you at the bar when you're ready to begin plotting your next conquest.'  
  
With that, they said their goodbyes and Aoba clicked the call off. It was part of his ritual, to phone Mizuki shortly after each one. It refreshed him, helped cleanse the sordid nature of his activity from his body, but it wasn’t nearly as purfiyingas a piping hot bath, and that was the only thing on his mind right now.


	2. Chapter 2

'Vodka and tonic.' Aoba hailed over the counter. Slipping onto the polished barstool with ease; he could almost hear the sigh of appreciation from the other patrons as his tight jeans clung to his ass, outlining the smooth curves and leaving little to the imagination.  _I know, it's good._

'You know the only thing I'll serve you is water or juice.' Mizuki placed the cleaning cloth down, brandishing the empty glass triumphantly. 'With that new club open in town I can't afford to get done for serving minors alcohol – especially when they don't know how to hold it.'

'Alright, alright. No need to be so sassy. I'll have orange juice.' Aoba pouted, his blue brows knotting together as he tasted the defeat of Mizuki’s words. 'Anyway, what new club?'

'Cinnamon Sugar, it's called. Apparently it's member exclusive, but still. Business is tight enough as is without some swanky club springing up four doors down.' Mizuki rambled, filling Aoba's glass with the chosen beverage.

A quick glance around the dark bar and Aoba confirmed that less people were here tonight. Lurking in the corners were the usuals, the customers a business relied on to survive, the ones who came at the same time on the same day and always purchased the same thing. Short of being hit by a car, nothing would stop them from coming, and looking at some of them Aoba wasn't entirely certain that held true either. Mizuki's patrons, for the majority, were fiercely loyal.

'I highly doubt,' Aoba sipped his juice and noted with pleasure the hidden sharpness of alcohol slipped into its depths, 'You'll lose customers to a place called Cinnamon Sugar. It sounds so... gay.'

'That's rich coming from you.'

'Hey, don't shoot the support.'

'You don't deny it, though.'

'I don't like it when you're moody.'

'I'm sorry, Aoba.' Mizuki's shoulders drooped. Leaving his position behind the bar he took the empty stool next to his friend, a glass of vodka already nestled between his hands.

This was bad.

The quick-fire banter between them faded into a silence, and Aoba sat there awkwardly fiddling his fingers over his glass, certain this was the part where he was supposed to offer his support and kind, comforting words. Yet when he turned inside himself to look for those things he came up empty. There was nothing there for him to offer but a nudge of his shoulder into his friend and a wonky smile.

'If you're about to suggest a quick fuck would make me feel better I won’t mind being short another customer if it's you.'

'I'm not all about _that_  you know.' Aoba sounded hurt, and he nudged his deflated friend again when he apologized. Though he would never admit it, Aoba didn't like to see his long-time friend hurting this way. 'I say we do something about this place.'

'Ahh... I don't know. It only opened a week ago...  I just get so mad when I hear people talking about it like it's the best thing. Their drinks are cheaper, more colourful and get you drunk quicker. The music is louder. The lights are brighter. The dance floor is huge. How can I compete with that?'

'You don't compete.' Aoba said, taking a swig of his drink and letting the idea formulate slowly in his mind. He was working on something. He wasn't entirely sure what yet, but one thing was for certain. 'I'm going to get in there.'

'It's members only.'

Aoba shot Mizuki a look that dripped with pure sarcasm.

'Like that's ever stopped you, yeah I know, I know.' Mizuki stared down at his glass, seemingly lost in his myriad of thoughts. A mire of doom no doubt, Aoba thought with concern, and he was determined to save his friend from it. Lord knows Mizuki had saved his ass on more than one occasion – it was his turn to pay back some of that debt.

Slamming his fist down on the counter hard enough that the low mumble of conversations ceased for a few seconds, Aoba locked his jaw with determination.

'A little sabotage is in order, I think.'

'I don't like that look on your face. Aoba, please. You have no idea what you're getting into.'

'Who’s the owner of this club?'

'His name is Mink – Aoba, really, I-'

'How old is this geezer?'

'I don't know. I've never seen him but some say he's in his late thirties, early forties. Aoba, listen to me-'

'I'm going to bring down the Sugar Daddy.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised at this point I missed a trick in calling it 'Cinnamon Challenge', but hey.


	3. Chapter 3

Aoba's cunning plan had been easier said than done.   
  
Getting out of the house without his adoptive grandmother seeing and then questioning her grandson's choice of attire was the first hurdle, and overcoming it involved a shimmy down the drainpipe from his bedroom balcony. He cussed as his pant leg snagged on a nail en route, tearing the fabric.  Once he was safely on the ground he inspected the damage, clicking his tongue in annoyance until he heard a stirring in the house. Gritting his teeth he ran down the street, escaping into the night before his grandmother could apprehend her wayward child.  
  
When he was surely out of reach he slowed to his usual strut, his chin cocked high as he strode down the pavement, the heel of his thigh high boots clicking against the concrete.   
  
With each step a new pair of eyes fell on him, and he could feel the hidden faces peering beneath what little he wore; his best jeans, now torn but still perfect, clung to his ass cheeks and accentuated his tiny waist, the boots that elongated his feminine legs, and the black shirt that may as well have been painted on.   
  
His vibrant blue locks were tussled, creating his favourite just-fucked look, and when teamed with his sultry face allowed him to stop any man dead in his tracks, but that was a special move he was saving for the boss of the club.   
 _  
Sugar Daddy,_ Aoba scoffed to himself as he heard the thumping music pour out onto the street,  _I'm going to catch you in one hell of a honey trap_.  
  
It was here that Aoba encountered his second hurdle.  
  
Normally, a lone guardsman would not be an issue and  Aoba would have him by now – a quick handjob, maybe a blowjob, and access would be granted.  
  
That's how it normally went, but this guard was giving nothing. He was stiffer and less responsive than the ponce's standing outside the Queen's Palace in London. That was until Aoba tried to take a step through the doors.  
  
'Member's only, pipsqueak.'  
  
'Aw, come on. Why not let a guy in just this once?'  
  
'Go home and suck your momma's teet until you're old enough and then I'll reconsider.'  
  
'Why don't I suck  _you_  and then you let me in?'  
  
'It's not my job to get sucked off. It's my job to keep scum like you out of this place.'  
  
Aoba attempted another step towards the large, black doors, his entry once more obstructed by the bulky build of the guard. For a man so large he sure moved quickly, his thick fingers pressing into Aoba's chest and pushing just enough to knock him back a pace or two.  
  
That was annoying.  
  
This was not going to work, and with his usual tactics so easily thwarted Aoba realised he had little else to fall back on. He'd have to find another way.  
  
 _Just like I always say. If the front door don't work... take the back entrance.  
_  
With the loud music still thrumming in his ears, Aoba scouted the building.   
  
It was plain to look at, ugly even. A large concrete block that if not for the music and guard, he was sure it would go completely unnoticed. There was no carpeted area with rope dividers for the long queue of people since there was no one queuing to get in. It hardly looked the part of a newly opened, exclusive club.  
  
 _So whatever makes it so special had to be on the inside.  
_  
Aoba circled the building like a cat, slipping down an alleyway that ran adjacent and clambering over the trash until he found what it was he was looking for. It was quite theatrical, the way the dim light from inside bathed the dumpster in a golden glow. For a second Aoba felt himself the star of the video game, and the object he was destined to interact with dully highlighted before him.   
  
It wasn't the most dignified entry to a club he had ever had, but it certainly wasn't the least dignified either. So far, it was his only option, so he decided to take what he could get before climbing onto the dumpster and, for a building with such tight security, was able to slip his slender frame through an open bathroom window.   
  
He half expected the asshole from the front door to grip his leg and pull him back out, yet no such thing happened and within the minute Aoba was slinking down into a toilet cubicle with a slight clamor.   
  
When his clothes were sorted and the damage to his leg from earlier deemed to be minor, he made his way out of the cubicle to see three women lined up in front of the mirror, leaning over the sink as they pouted, angling their heads this way and that to ensure they looked perfect from every angle.   
  
Not even a glance. They acted oblivious as he strolled out of the cubicle, as if his sudden appearance in the women's lavatory had been perfectly normal.   
  
 _What the fuck is up with that?_  
  
His first report back was the lack of decent clientele, he decided grumpily as he exited the toilets. It was not the entrance he had imagined, but at least he was inside now.  
  
When he finally laid his sights on the core of the club, the scene that greeted his golden eyes was beyond any stretch of his imagination.


	4. Chapter 4

What on Earth was more appetising about this place than the quiet elegance and sophistication of Mizuki's bar? Absolutely nothing was the answer echoing in Aoba's head.

What a fucking let down.

The music was loud. Too loud. But then of course it had to be, lest the old todgers that filled the place be unable to hear it. It thrummed loudly, every pounding beat reverberating in Aoba's chest with such force he was sure by the time he left he'd be a rib or two loose. After the struggle to penetrate the building, a task that had been harder than fucking a priest's virtuous daughter, and unlike the sweetness of fucking the priest's virtuous daughter, the club was beyond anti-climatic. The young women he'd seen vanished into a haze of smoke, the swirling grey clouds puffed out from between thick and bearded lips of the numerous men was already stinging at Aoba's already irritated eyes. The women that were present in the club all draped themselves across the older men's shoulders, much like the carcasses of animals so favoured by overly large rich ladies of the upper classes, their skinny bodies and vacant eyes much the same.

Disgusting.

These men were all old enough to be the girl's fathers – no, they were much older than that – grandfathers.

The club had an authentically old, almost antique quality. Rosewood barstools with deep red plush cushions, the booths where the ancient men whispered illicit promises of bedroom antics to giggling girls were dark, darker than the men's intentions, illuminated by low hanging green lamps. This was a far cry from the hip and trendy scene of Mizuki's Black Needle Bar. The attraction of the place was lost to him. He disliked the décor, he disliked the men, and he disliked the seedy atmosphere even more. It made his skin crawl clean from the bones of his body.

'You new 'ere.' A gruff voice greeted him. It had been a few minutes since he'd come out of the women's toilets, and now that someone's attention was at last upon him Aoba suddenly felt unsure of what to do with it. He turned towards it, towards a man with a gullet that hung clean over his belt. 'Yer sure are a pretty one. Come sit with me awhile.'

'...You think you can afford to?' Aoba cocked a brow, eyeing up his company with a scrutinising gaze. The man was several inches taller and impressively wide at the belly, broad on the thigh and sporting well beefed arms to match. A wrinkled forehead, cheeks reddened with the kiss of alcohol, a moustache brushing the top of his lip. It was hard to tell in the low lighting but Aoba suspected flecks of grey persisted through the dyed black strands that clung to the man's balding head. His eyes were small and beady, dead as a shark's and just as predatory.

At Aoba's quick remark the man chuckled. 'Honey, what you drinkin'?'

'Mhm... why don't you pick for me?'

At the man's beckoning Aoba slipped into the booth, the plush seating pressing against his ass as closely as a pervert's grubby hand on the train. He felt every inch of his body being assaulted, from the music banging in his ears to the groping seat beneath his ass, and that was before he even got started on his new 'friend'.

'A'ight.' The man smiled, a full seat of tobacco stained pearlies, and hailed down a waitress. He muttered something to her that Aoba cared not to hear, his attention elsewhere. He surveyed the premises, scouring for evasive clues as to why this place was thriving over Mizuki's. The abundance of older males was in no way Mizuki's usual crowd. The women, certainly. Aoba even felt he recognised a few freshly powdered faces here and there. Yet it still wasn't enough to pull his friend's trade down so harshly. What could possibly be doing it, then?

'Here yer go my lovely.'

Aoba glanced down at the tall cocktail glass, the fierce red liquid sharper than blood. It looked so out of place on the table, illuminated by the lamp overhead it appeared to be under the limelight so to speak.

'Thank you. So tell me about this place.' Aoba placed his elbow on the table, lifted the glass to his lips and coyly looked over the rim as he took a tentative sip. Fruity.

'Yer'd rather talk about that?' The man's bushy brows raised. He had more hair on the front of his face than on top of his head. How unfortunate. 'Why don't we... get ta' knowing each other a bit, mhm? Whaddya say?'

'Okay.' Aoba said, licking his lips slowly. He made sure the man saw it – not that there was an issue with that. Those dark eyes never left his body, not for a second. 'What you wanna know?'

'You seem kind of nice. You a... no mark?'

No mark...? Aoba hadn't heard the term before now. 'That's right.'

'Ahh...' The man seemed pleased, almost sighing as he reclined in the booth, one arm stretched along the back so that his fingers looped around to Aoba's left shoulder. Not touching, though. Not yet.

'It wont take long for someone to snap you up.'

'I hope so... get's kind of lonely, you know?' Aoba was bluffing, his heart racing in his chest. One wrong step and the game would be up, but the man seemed to be buying it, stroking his moustache thoughtfully with his other hand. Was it good luck to do that or something? Aoba wondered if he should reach out and do the same.

'Don't you be worrying about that tonight. I got you. What's yer name?'

'Aoba. What's yours?' Aoba placed his hand on the table, running his finger slowly up and down the length of the cocktail glass. He tilted his head to one side, exposing the soft flesh of his neck.

The man just smiled his reply, took a sip of his own beverage – a dark liquid, brandy perhaps – and snaked his fingers over Aoba's, ceasing the endless up and down cycle Aoba had been working on the cocktail stem. 'Don't you worry yer pretty little head over that jus' yet. I like you, Aoba. Ya wanna maybe go somewhere a little more... private? I can make it worth yer while.'

Bile was thick in the back of Aoba's throat. He kept it down, forcing the smile upon his moistened lips to remain. 'And how do you intend to make it worth  _my_  while, hmm?'

The arm that had up until now remained passive on the back of the booth chairs suddenly snaked into life, coiling around Aoba's shoulders and clutching tightly, bringing the small gap between them to a close. Aoba could feel the bulge of fat press over him, the greasy heat of the other man overwhelming. His senses were washed over with a mixture of tobacco and liqueur, along with the man's stained breath. It was revolting to breathe in and yet Aoba was helpless to stop it. He didn't have time to push away before the man seized him, locking his lips in a kiss that couldn't be described as anything other than slimy, the bristles of his moustache prickling sharply as he moved his lips over Aoba's slowly.

Much too slowly.

The sorry excuse for a kiss seemed to last an eternity.

When he was done the man moved his mouth to Aoba's ear, whispering a hoarse promise of the fun they could have back at his apartment.

'Ahh...' Aoba sighed. He was growing tired from keeping up this facade. He had to slip away from here. '...But I don't even know your name. What kind of person would that make me?'

'You wanna be a mark, don't ya?' The man sank back. 'Become mine. Tonight. I'll buy you anything you want. Clothes, jewels, gadgets. You'll see it all at mine.'

'How do I know you're not lying?'

He seemed offended by that, the curtained corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. 'A'ight. Yer a smart one, eh? That's okay. Drink a bit more at least, an' I'll tell yer a bit about me. Deal?'

Aoba was all too grateful for the chance to wash his mouth out. Though he would have rather used toothpaste and a scourer, the fruity tang of his cocktail would at least suffice now. Christ, tonight was really turning out to be a shit night.

He swirled the fluid gratefully around his mouth before swallowing it deeply and taking a second gulp, downing half of it quicker than perhaps he should.

'There yer go. That'll help.'

'So...' Aoba began, 'If I became your mark... what would you have me do?'

'Hehe, Aoba, Aoba. So full of questions. You're not even going to remember the answers by the morning, so what's the point in telling you?'

Aoba opened his mouth to speak but the words tumbled out shapelessly, a small murmur the only sound, drowned out by the heavy thrum of music. That very same beat was pounding his skull to mush now, no longer just an annoying noise in his ears. It was physically hurting his head, and he cupped his forehead with his hands as if to keep his brain from melting out.

'That's it, steady now boy. The effects will wear off soon, I promise. Just ride it out.'

This was bad.

Aoba's vision was spinning. All around him he could see the man's grotesque face, distorting out of proportion and laughing maniacally. He wanted to scream but his voice was dead in his throat. He wanted to kick and punch but his limbs hung lifelessly, no strength to even lift a finger. And when his head became too heavy, he felt the man cupping the back of his neck, their eyes meeting. 'Sweet Aoba. You're  _mine_  now.'

It was the last thing he would remember.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

This wasn't good.

Aoba's head was thick with fog, the pain inside ricocheting around his skull keenly, the feeling he'd been out cold for several hours impossible to shake as he came round. He wriggled toes – all of them thankfully present and accounted for, as too were his fingers, if a little sluggish – his sigh of relief deeply felt. His mouth was as dry as one would expect from sucking on cotton balls, but he was alive, a fact he was somewhat grateful for regardless of the overall state of his body.

'Don't bother trying to speak or move.'

'...Ugh...' Aoba tried to focus his vision, squinting his eyes and blinking away at the blurriness. Where the fuck was he, and who the fuck was speaking to him? And what did a guy have to do to get a drink around here? Like hell he was going to listen to some baritone wielding punk ass bitch.

From somewhere beyond he heard a frustrated sigh.

It wasn't his own. He was still trying to pull back the duvet, the thin woven fabric deceitfully heavy, undoubtedly woven with boulders. Why was everything so fucking difficult?

'Common sense clearly doesn't prevail in you.'

'...ck... lea...' Aoba croaked. Oh god he wished he hadn't bothered.

'You need to sleep more. When you've recovered, you can go home.'

Like fuck that was going to happen. Aoba wasn't going to sleep, he was going to get right up off this... before the thought was finished, he was out cold again.

 

The second awakening was more pleasant than the first. He was pleased to note all appendages were still firmly attached, the wriggle test effective as ever, and now that he'd slept long enough to rival Sleeping Beauty's record (alas, no kiss from a handsome prince for him) he was not in such a sorry state as before.

He lay still, hiding beneath the duvet like a child staying up beyond bedtime. The scent of must mixed with a sort of spice assaulted him first as he breathed in tightly against the intricate weave of the duvet, and he noticed the illumination coming from somewhere in the room. Distant footfalls echoed back and forth, going elsewhere, sometimes growing loud enough that Aoba instinctively held his breath as he waited for the imminent opening of a door, of a stranger coming to leer over him.

Ah. He remembered something like that. The gruff, commanding voice of some asshole telling him to shut up and sleep. Aoba scooted further back into his memory, trying to recall the moments that lead him to be here now, but the further he went the thicker the fog that shrouded his memories. Glimpses of dark wood furniture, the sweet aroma of wine, white teeth... concepts, nothing more. It was useless to try, the thrum in his skull quieter but never the less  _there_.

How long he chose to lay low and listen he could not be sure. Five minutes or sixty, the seconds flowed endlessly into each other as if they, too, waited with baited breath for Aoba to make the first ripple.

He surreptitiously inched the duvet down from his face, breathed in the air not mixed with cotton fibres, and at last eased himself into a wary upright position. Almost disappointingly he found himself alone.

To call it a bedroom would be to remove the personal defects one normally filled such a space with, to peel away any sense of personality from the domain, leaving nothing butt the bare bones adequate enough to fulfil the descriptive naming of the space – a room with a bed and nothing more. And so it was that Aoba was in a bedroom, or was it more of a cell? The grey walls and ceiling were reminiscent of a cell, of that Aoba could be sure. Sometimes it was more fun to let the cat catch the mouse as it were.

'...The fuck...?' Aoba murmured, pleased to find his voice, if a little hoarse from disuse.

Carefully he eased his legs out of the bed, steadying them on the floor, wincing as the blood filled them up again, his intention to make it across the sparse room to the door. It would be locked, without a doubt it would be locked, and still he felt compelled to try the handle, just the once.

It wasn't locked.

The door opened with ease, yielding without hesitation as he pulled down the handle. The hinges whined slightly, the only sign of a protest. There was not even a guard waiting outside. Not so much as a soul, the foot steps he'd heard earlier now ghostly. Strange. He had hoped for some kind of conflict to liven things up a bit – he had become a little lonely, if he was honest, even if he had only spoken to the gruff miserable voice once. Not that he himself had much to say in return at the time, the thought of his woeful fragmented sentences making his cheeks flush suddenly. He wanted the chance to redeem himself.

The corridor wasn't lengthy, just as bland as the room he had been occupying, four doors lining the walls and a staircase leading ominously down. With nothing left for him to do here Aoba made for the staircase, his movements slow and cautious as a cat entering a stranger's home, though considerably less refined for his legs wobbled and buckled every few steps, his hand propped against the wall to steady himself. This was incredibly undignified. Though not his first walk of shame it was the first time he'd not been laid the night before, the self-assured smirk not present, also lacking was the sassy walk he liked to put on as he made his way through the early morning streets. No, today as he inched down the wooden staircase he was groggy and uncoordinated and unlaid.

'Sleeping beauty finally woke up I see.'

Aoba froze mid-step, trapped on the final three steps of the staircase when he heard that voice. The one he had been missing a few minutes earlier. He missed it no more.

'I do need my rest.' Aoba retorted, turning around slowly. 'Where the fuck am I?'

'I think I preferred you when you couldn't talk. 'Idiot.'

'Look, pal. I'm a busy guy. It was fun and all but-'

'I didn't fuck you. I wouldn't fuck you, either.' The man was descending the stairs, the thick black boots thundering on each step as they carried the massive weight towards Aoba. The instinct was to run, but his feet remained glued to the spot. 'You somehow snuck into my club and had your ass drugged. If it hadn't been for me you'd be waking up in a very different situation right about now.'

There was a lump of truth lodged in Aoba's throat. Each word dragged back a hazy memory, too distorted to really grasp, leaving him with little more than a feeling of deep rooted unsettlement.

'I should sue for dama-hey! What you think you're-!' Aoba felt the ground beneath his feet vanish as the man reached out and lifted him up by the scruff of his shirt. This guy was on steroids or some shit.

'I'd quit running that smart mouth of yours, boy. Listen to me carefully; my club is no place for you to be. If I catch you in here again a shady customer will be the least of your worries. Rearranging your pretty face wont take long. Are we clear?'

Their faces were intensely close, the scent of spice surrounding Aoba completely, the bitter hint of smoke clinging to his tongue, right against the sharp comment that resided there. He wanted to answer back but something dangerous glimmered in the man's eyes, and for once he knew better than to bait it.

'Seems you do have some sense after all.' The man let go and Aoba straightened out his shirt, quietly relieved to feel the ground back beneath his feet. God, this had been a shit experience. 'My men will see you out. If you know what's good for you go straight home. And don't come back.'

 

Aoba didn’t need telling twice. He had absolutely no intention of returning here again.


End file.
